


tender are the hands of god

by Anonymous



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>, or the one where they fuck in the car and Tyrell gives up control of the situation before he ever really had it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tender are the hands of god

**Author's Note:**

> Some literarily irredeemable “they totally fucked in the car” filth with additional asphyxiation and weird mid-porn religious imagery and apparently an unpopular opinion (??) of tyrelliot power dynamics thrown into the mix. This was supposed to be a drabble but it ran away from me idk.
> 
> Also looking back this seems to be more than a little subconsciously inspired by the fic [coda1.8_0cc4ms-r4z0r.cfg](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7525945) which is so damn good everyone go read it.

It took Tyrell an embarrassingly long amount of time – at least five solid minutes of bliss-stupid juvenile making out in the back seat – to realize that things had gone very pear shaped somewhere along the way.

Conditions were hardly ideal in the first place.  He didn’t exactly make a habit of fucking in the backseat of cars, no matter how nice and spacious the car in question was.  There just wasn’t enough room for anything more athletic than a blow job back there when you had two grown men going at it off the high of initiating a revolution, even when one of those men was admittedly a rather lithe little thing.  But their limbs were in awkward positions, fingers and toes scrambling for purchase on the upholstery, it was like fucking in the shower without the water to complicate things but with added annoyances of door-mounted armrests to smack the crown of your skull against.  Not to mention the way his shirt, once crisp, was half untucked and riding up in the back, exposing a strip of damp flushed skin to stick to the leather seat.

Which lead to the issue at hand: Tyrell was lying flat on his back with his legs stretched open wide enough to stress the seams.  One foot, shoeless, was pressing into the window, and the other was pushing against a headrest for leverage.  That left only one place for Elliot, atop him on all fours like a proud lion standing over a wounded animal.  The leg attached to the headrest foot was bent and caught in one of Elliot’s deceptively strong hands, practically resting over his shoulder.  The other hand was pressing against Tyrell’s collarbone and shoulder a moment ago, back when everything still _felt_ like situation normal.

And then it got _all_ fucked up.  That hand moved an inch, two inches, and Tyrell was so busy grinding against Elliot’s thigh that he didn’t even realize what was happening until there were fingers pushing into the barely-yielding muscle of his neck.  

Choking him.

Ironically enough, Tyrell’s mind didn’t even wander in the direction of Sharon Knowles’ limp body lying motionless on that rooftop.  It was later, days later, as he watched the fallout of their digital carnage spilling across the streets, that he wondered if it was supposed to be some sort of twisted vigilante punishment of Elliot’s.  A taste of his own medicine, so to speak, but all he tasted at the moment was the panic of losing control at the back of his throat like bile – and the curious thrill of something unknown.

_Stop_ , he wanted to say, _this isn’t how the script goes._

Seemed like everything was going off script lately.  So instead of croaking out an undignified plea, he grabbed Elliot’s wrist and titled his head back in an equally undignified expression of absolute submission, jarring his head against that armrest again.  His body went to places his mind protested as his spine arched a fraction deeper, just so he could press harder against Elliot and push into that much coveted personal space that was always so well guarded.  If his brain had enough oxygen for it, Tyrell would have thought it was an unprecedented victory, getting Elliot’s inhibitions low enough for him to press his nose against Tyrell’s cheek as he thrusted against him, fingers still squeezing tight.

But the acknowledgement of his victory would have to wait, since his vision was spotting out and his hips were slowing as his awareness tunneled to nothing beyond the feeling of Elliot folding over him.  All of the jumbled, sluggish thoughts taking up precious space that should be reserved for _Elliot Elliot Elliot_ were screaming for air, for life.

When those fingers loosened around his throat, it was like the apex of a baptism.  He gasped violently, dragging trembling breaths into his burning lungs as he dug his fingernails into Elliot’s wrist, right where the callus was from dragging across his desk when using a mouse.  Most techs had one, but Tyrell certainly didn’t.

It took a moment before Tyrell could see right again, past the blind spots in his vision and the disheveled hair that had fallen over his eyes.  His body was still except for his heaving chest.  Elliot was still as well, but there was an energy buzzing in him that practically made him kinetic regardless.  His mouth was hanging open just enough for Tyrell to see his front teeth, and his eyes were more wild than any of those moments Tyrell saw naked fear in them.

He didn’t look quite like the Elliot Tyrell was used to.  He looked sharper, and so much more dangerous.

“That hurt?” he asked, voice low and almost taunting.  His hand was still resting on Tyrell’s throat when Tyrell nodded an affirmative, blinking tears away.  “Was it good?”

Tyrell drew in a shuddering breath and clamped his eyes shut.  It almost sounded like Elliot was giving him an out, a way to reestablish the script and rewrite their roles.  But he was hard, leaking in a pair of trousers that likely cost double Elliot’s entire wardrobe put together.  His throat throbbed angrily, and with his eyes closed, he could imagine the marks that would bloom like a brand of ownership.

He could lie, but for once that sounded like less fun than the truth.

“It was good.”  He opened his eyes to stare straight into Elliot’s.  “Do it again.”

He wanted it to sound like a command.  It came out as a plea.

Elliot smiled, and pulled back to sit up straight.

“Wait–” Tyrell didn’t even have time to hate himself for begging before Elliot started fumbling with his hoodie, tearing it off.  His hand went into his trousers, and Tyrell certainly wasn’t about to ask _is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?_  But Jesus fucking Christ, there _was_ a gun, tucked in the front of Elliot’s waistband in a dishearteningly poor show of gun safety.  They could have been _shot_ , for fuck’s sake.  After the bout of choking earlier, Tyrell half expected to find himself staring down the barrel, but Elliot haphazardly tossed it into the front seat like it was some inconsequential pocket clutter and not a lethal weapon.  Then Elliot smacked Tyrell's thigh in a way that had him yelping in confusion.

“Gotta lose those pants, man,” he said as way of explanation.  “I don’t wanna hear you bitching about getting them dirty or something.”

Instead of obeying, Tyrell propped himself up on his elbows and watched with intent interest as Elliot stripped his shirt and moved back to his waistband.  “How about you do it for me?  Might as well fold them, too.  Remember, go _with_ the crease.”

His last-ditch effort to assert any kind of dominance.  He was breathless as he said it.  It didn’t work.

Elliot flashed him a look that said _do it yourself, you fastidious prick_ , and pulled his own cock out.  Any energy Tyrell could have spent coming up with something to say immediately went skipping merrily down his body to take up residence in his erection.  He started internally kicking himself for not keeping lube and condoms in the car.  Why the fuck didn't he?  He could have Elliot inside of him if he did, have Elliot fuck into him with the leverage of a hand on Tyrell’s neck.  Push Elliot out the car door and into the gravel so Tyrell can ride him.  The bruises on his hips would be –

“Whatever.” Elliot’s impatient grumble was Tyrell’s only warning before his hips were being lifted and his trousers were coming off, boxers and all in one swift go.  The remaining shoe was unceremoniously knocked off to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting Tyrell on the way down.  One sock valiantly clung to his foot.

Tyrell might have had something scornful to say about Elliot spitting into his hand, but he nearly swallowed his tongue when their cocks pressed tightly together in Elliot’s wet fist.  There was absolutely no finesse to it.  It was rough, practically beastial, and Tyrell still had the presence of mind to feel shame for the way his face reddened and his hips rutted against Elliot’s.

“Can I kiss you?” Tyrell blurted out, not exactly in respect for Elliot’s personal boundaries.  More like out of a desire to have everything openly and freely given to him, _bestowed_ upon him, like a gift from a divine creature.  An answer to his prayers.

Elliot looked confused for a second, like he didn’t understand the question.  But then he nodded, said, “Yeah, sure.”

Tyrell leaned up before he even finished saying it.  Elliot’s lips were chapped, probably from a nervous habit of biting at them.  Tyrell didn’t mind that, though, it was just right for someone like Elliot.  He sunk his own teeth into the bottom lip and Elliot groaned as he pushed back against Tyrell, and Tyrell’s head collided uncomfortably against that fucking armrest again.

He tried to shimmy down a fraction into a more comfortable position, but that served to break off the kiss.  He wasn’t deterred, though.  There was so much skin in front of him that deserved his attention.  He kissed along Elliot’s cheek, to his ear, kissed his eyelids when he made a noise Tyrell couldn’t quite read.  How he yearned for a bed right now, something he could tie Elliot down to and spend hours touching every part of him.

Tyrell’s shirt became more and more rumpled as Elliot’s naked torso pressed against it, and he could feel Elliot’s belt buckle digging into the bare skin of his thigh.  Together, they almost made one whole disheveled man, or one whole nude one.  Something graceful and divine to be put to canvas and displayed on a wall for even the simplest mind to gawk at.  Something like Adam lounging languidly after his creation, hand still reaching out for God.  Something like how Tyrell feels now, under Elliot’s fingers breaking him down and making him into something new.  Something better.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into Elliot’s skin, “You’re _brilliant_.”

When the hand slipped back around his throat, it felt necessary.  Elliot’s other hand was still wetly working their cocks, probably developing a nice cramp at this point, but _this_ is what Tyrell was waiting for.  His toes curled and his spine arched, pushing himself as much into that hand as he could.  

Tyrell almost wished he’d press harder, until the spots overran his vision and all he could see was an abyss, knowing nothing but Elliot taking his life.  Then they’d both have murdered with their bare hands, and wouldn’t that be magnificent?  But Elliot released his grip again, at the same time he squeezed their cocks harder.  There were tears now, skidding like shooting stars down Tyrell’s temples when he nodded an affirmative to Elliot’s soft inquiry of _you good?_

He was good.  He’d never been this good before.  Everything felt like light and knowing, warm and yielding under their collective will.  They could do anything.

“How about helping out, huh?” Elliot asked as he grabbed one of Tyrell’s hands from where it was digging crescents into Elliot’s shoulder, and shoved it down into their laps.  “You don’t get to make someone else do all the work this time.”

It felt right to have both of them in his hand like that, like he was graciously afforded some fraction of power.  He savored it, moving his own hips with renewed vigor.

Elliot smiled.  It was something dark, not entirely unkind but not anywhere near the realm of sweet.  “Knew you’d be good at taking orders.”

Tyrell bit his lip and groaned despite himself.  “I prefer to think of it as taking _initiative_ to maximize profits.”

“Fuck, man,” Elliot breathed, and Tyrell liked the sound of filth coming out of his mouth, “Not everything is a business transaction.”

“Then what–” Tyrell’s breath stuttered as Elliot thrust hard against him, “What would you call this?”

Wrong question, apparently, because that darkness in Elliot’s eyes took a turn for the sinister at once.  “Don’t stop moving your hand,” he murmured, and pushed two fingers into Tyrell’s mouth.  They were slick and salty with precome, and Tyrell moaned around them.

Let it suffice to say that he had completely abandoned any hope of reestablishing control by then.  Any defiance left in him rolled over and became acceptance; this was where he belonged.

The fingers pulled out of his mouth, and he might have protested if it wasn’t for the other hand wrapping around his neck.

Back to that again, were we?  Tyrell couldn't complain.  He reveled in it, moved his hand faster along their cocks like he was ordered, like the good little soldier he was.  He welcomed the lightheadedness as it once again engulfed his senses, dropping him into a pleasant state of dulled awareness.  Distantly, he knew Elliot was shifting a bit, straightening the arm that was holding Tyrell down and rising up onto his knees a fraction.

And then, he jerked in surprise as he felt two fingers pressing gently against his hole.

Elliot _wouldn’t_.  He had the capacity to be cruel, but not like _that_.  Spit and precome weren’t nearly enough to get those fingers inside of him, no matter how much he wanted them.  And Elliot seemed to understand that, with the way he was intent on teasing.  But the second those fingers pressed a fraction harder, just hard enough to feel like a threat (a _promise_ ), Tyrell was _done_.

Desperately, he tried to croak out some kind of sound, something necessary and deep.  But Elliot didn’t slacken his grip at all, just kept squeezing Tyrell’s throat and thrusting into Tyrell’s hand.  The spots in his vision weren’t black that time, they were burning, searing white.

When Elliot finally let Tyrell breathe, there were more than just a few tears.  He was practically sobbing, drawing in heaving, spasming breaths at the intensity of it.  He felt like all his skin and muscle and sinew were stripped back to expose his nerves raw, every inch of him was crying out for more, begging for Elliot’s hands on him.  He whined high in his throat when he noticed Elliot was desperately clambering up his body to settle over his chest. He stroked his cock like he intended to mark his territory.  No – more like sign his newest work of art, let the world know that Tyrell couldn’t have did what he did without Elliot.

Tyrell leaned up before he could think better of acting without orders, and took what he could fit of Elliot’s cock into his mouth.

The angle was horrible, forcing Elliot to hunch his back and Tyrell to stretch in a way that was going to leave him sore in more places than he could count.  But he didn’t worry about that for a second once Elliot’s hand tangled in his hair.  And the noises, _god_ , Elliot made such pretty noises.  Tyrell wondered, with a sense of haughtiness he couldn’t shake, how long it would take before Elliot started to beg.

He didn’t get to find out, because Elliot was coming just a few moments later, tightening his grip on Tyrell’s hair as he did it.  Tyrell leaned back after the first spurt, letting the rest of it cover his face and neck.  He felt degraded, but in the same moment, he felt freed.

His eyes slipped closed for god knows how long, and when he reopened the, Elliot was sitting with his back against the far door, chest still heaving.  It was clear he either didn’t know or didn’t give a shit about any kind of aftercare, the way he was curled on himself like he was trying his best not to touch Tyrell.  Although he did ask, with his eyes closed, “Are you okay?”

For some reason, Tyrell wanted to cry again, he was so overcome.  Instead, he just said, “Yes,” in a voice so hoarse and trembling it could hardly be heard.  “Although I think the armrest on this door gave me a fucking concussion.”

Elliot smiled at that, something lopsided and slow.  Tyrell felt proud to have put it there.  He wanted to close his eyes and lie floating in satiated victory, but he really _was_ quite uncomfortable.  Slowly, he dragged himself so he was sitting up in his seat, facing the front of the car.  His shirt was ruined and nearly falling off his frame with the amount of buttons that were undone or curiously missing, so he dragged the sleeve across the mess Elliot had made of him in a half-assed attempt to get clean.

He wasn’t pouting, he really wasn’t.  But he wanted more from Elliot, some kind of confirmation that they were okay.  He wanted to touch him, just to feel his skin.  So he asked, because that seemed to yield positive results the last time: “May I touch you, Elliot?”

Elliot’s heavy eyes slid open a fraction.  He looked like he wanted to tell Tyrell to go fuck himself, but instead asked, “In what way?”

Tyrell considered that for a moment, before he extended one hand.  Elliot looked at it for one breath, two, three, and then slowly reached out and gently laced their fingers.  It wasn’t even enough contact to be considered holding hands, but it made Tyrell’s skin buzz and his blood sing.  It was enough.


End file.
